


Traction

by Sulla



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-07
Updated: 2011-01-07
Packaged: 2017-10-14 12:04:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/149090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sulla/pseuds/Sulla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A response to a prompt at the kinkmeme, which was as follows:</p><p>John has a broken leg, or two, maybe an arm in a cast to boot. And he's stuck in the hospital, hoisted up like a marionette.</p><p>This doesn't stop him and Sherlock from having awkward, difficult, furtive, but consensual sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Traction

When John rugby-tackled Sherlock out of the way of a rapidly approaching lorry, he hadn't been thinking of himself. In fact he hadn't been thinking of pretty much anything at all; he simply saw the danger, and reacted.

He was glad for once that Sherlock had little patience to stop and wait for him when he bent to tie his unraveling shoe laces. The man had just continued walking along Baker Street - about three streets away from their flat - not even pausing in his verbal stream of deductions. John had followed him with his eyes as he'd quickly tied the shoe, and happened to focus on something large and white barreling directly in their direction in the background.

John didn't take the time to finish tying his shoe; he jumped up, sprinting three great steps and throwing himself at Sherlock, catching him around the waist and slamming him into the ground. He had come just inches away from being flattened by the runaway vehicle, which ploughed into the side of a house with an enormous crunching sound, only a foot or so beyond the spot where the two of them had landed.

And John knew something was wrong the moment he made that landing, as he both heard and felt the bone in his right leg give in two places from being slammed against the front steps of the building. He'd been very lucky that he hadn't broken anything else, and he knew it. He also knew from the pain in his jaw that he'd come very close to biting through his own tongue, since his mouth, open in a useless warning yell, was slammed shut by Sherlock's elbow to his chin.

He let out a roar of pain that he clamped down on immediately, so that it came out as a guttural growl. All that he could think of was Sherlock: was his friend hurt? Oh god, he hadn't his his head, had he? It was the first fear that hit him, because he couldn't imagine Sherlock's life without his brilliant mind. Even as he laid there on the ground in agony he was running his hands over his flatmate's body.

"You, you're, are you all right? Did you hit your head? Does anything, ah, feel broken?" John's voice cracked on this last question. Sherlock was sitting on his arse on the pavement with his eyes wide open, staring at the lorry as if it had insulted his mother or something. His hair was a mess, flying up and almost standing on end from his flight through the air. He quickly turned his attention back to John when he heard his flatmate's voice catch.

"John, I'm fine. Not a scratch, I don't think. But you, you're injured, aren't you? Yes, look at the angle of your leg!"

John did exactly that, and he was unsurprised to see that his lower leg was bent backwards not at one spot, but at two, at opposite angles, so that his leg took on a zig-zag sort of shape. He groaned as Sherlock took his turn to look over his friend.

"Anywhere else, John? How are your arms? Fingers? Head? Oh, that's quite the bruise you'll be sporting on your in chin in a few hours," Sherlock said, rubbing his elbow. "Yes, I felt the impact of your chin against me."

John could hear the onlookers who had gathered around, and the sound of sirens approaching. Someone was helping the driver of the lorry, a great huge man with three days growth of beard on this face and a substantial gut, get out of the partially caved-in cab. The man seemed to be bleeding from a wound on his forehead, but John didn't worry about him, as he might have, as the paramedics pulled up within seconds.

Seeing that Sherlock was uninjured and that help was on site, he let himself lie prone on the pavement and tried to bite down on the pain. They would administer some morphine as soon as they had the chance, he knew, and thank god for that.

The last thing John remembered was flashes of the trip in the ambulance (Sherlock demanding that he be allowed to help administer care) and being rolled on a gurney into an operating room, with the sound of Sherlock carrying from at least two rooms away. It had taken three orderlies to prevent the detective from following John right into the operating room. He could hear Sherlock attempting to talk his way into the surgery, apparently flashing his pilfered Detective Inspector Lestrade ID, to no avail. Obviously it would never be allowed - and it shouldn't, he knew - but it touched him that Sherlock cared so much as to try so very hard.

But then the anesthetist was counting him backwards from 100, and he reached as far as 98 - and then there was nothing until he awoke in the recovery bay. It was, as usual, an odd experience. He first became self-aware, if that made sense, and then his brain received the messages the nerves in his his leg had been trying to deliver, and the pain burst into his mind as if it were slamming the door open and rushing in like an over-eager toddler hellbent on destruction. Tears of pain poured down his face, a reaction that he'd experienced before in Afghanistan when he'd first come out from surgery for the bullet wound in his shoulder. He'd also seen it in countless patients, but it was always strange to experience the sensation himself - tears that really shouldn't exist, because he wasn't sad, pouring down his face quite against his will. He was aware of a flurry of activity at both sides.

"Oh love, don't worry love, we've got some morphine here for you," the nurse soothed, and John issued a series of short, catching breaths. His body was trying to take in oxygen, but his brain telling him not to move, not to even breathe, due to the agony he was experiencing. The nurse couldn't give the morphine fast enough; he was desperate for the cessation of pain. Soon though, he slowly felt a wave of calm enveloping; not completely removing the pain, but pulling it to within bearable limits.

"Sh'lock?" he mumbled, thinking for some reason that the man must be in the room with him. "Sh'lock?"

"Yes, your friend is here at the hospital, in the waiting room doing just that. Yes, he is very anxious to see you, Doctor Watson," the nurse observed.

"Partner," replied John, eyes still closed and coming close to achieving the floating state that morphine induced.

"Partner?" asked the nurse, confused for a moment.

"Partner. He's. He's my partner."

A pause. "Of course, Doctor Watson. Your partner will be in to see you as soon as we have you transferred into your room. And lucky you! I hear that you'll be getting a private room!"

John's eyes opened momentarily, slipping shut almost immediately. "Wha? Why?"

The woman tapped the side of her nose. "I heard something about people in high places, but I don't know anything about it. Rest assured you'll be getting the best care, Doctor Watson. Now you rest, and I'll let you know when we're about to move you."

"My leg. How... how is my leg?"

"Two compound fractures, Doctor, one only three inches below the other. Both breaks have been set, and splinted, and you've been placed in a fibreglass cast. Your doctor will be able to tell you more when he comes around."

"Thanks."

"My pleasure, love."

John slipped easily back into darkness.

*****

John was jolted back to awareness when the orderlies came to transfer him into his new, blessedly private room. He had quiet suspicions that the 'people in high places' referred to Mycroft, and made a mental note to ask Sherlock. The man hated when his brother interfered in their life in any way, but John was happy to have a room to himself and wouldn't shun the opportunity to have one.

He was bodily hoisted from the gurney, and his broken leg was elevated about a foot and a half off of the bed. He was strapped into position and the counter-weights that would keep his leg in traction were applied and set in place. He didn't want to think about the pins in his leg, or the force that had to be applied to the limb to make it heal cleanly. He'd always thought the device that kept one in skeletal traction looked like something out of a science-themed toy store: all pulleys, ropes and weights. It looked frankly ludicrous, regardless of the necessity of it, which was inarguable, especially in his current situation. At this point he was pleased that he hadn't been fitted with a catheter; he'd always hated that. He was now looking at weeks, possibly up to two months, lying in the same position, and he didn't want to be peeing through a tube the whole time.

His IV was topped up by the attendant nurse: a course of antibiotics started to combat infection and of course the heavy dose of painkillers along with some anti-nausea medication which was often administered with said narcotics to combat the upset stomach that was par for the course with opiates. The nurse promised to come back to his room later with something to help him sleep, and then left.

"John!"

He was pulled out of his reverie by Sherlock's arrival at the door. He smiled at his partner, who was standing at the door staring blankly at the contraption that he'd been strapped in to.

"Sherlock. Notice the private room?" he asked, circling his hand at the room in general. Sherlock looked a little peeved for a moment, but then his brow cleared.

"Yes, well, my brother likes nothing but the best for his..." he trailed off.

"'Friends'?"

"Something like that. Who can understand that man? I certainly can't. Nosy bastard," Sherlock muttered this last to himself. "But I'm actually rather pleased at the private room. It would have been dull beyond description to have to deal with the presence of _people_ in our space." He said the word with disgust.

John chuckled as he saw Sherlock shuddered at the thought of having to stay in a room with strangers. "Yes, I suppose it is a good thing, considering that I'm going to have to be in here for weeks, if not months."

Sherlock went even more pale than his usual deathly pallor. "Surely it's not that serious? They can't possibly need to keep you away from home for so long!"

John laughed quietly. "You know better than that, Sherlock, and you know it's true."

"God, how am I going to manage?"

"Oh, am I that indispensable?"

Sherlock looked away. They were silent for a few moments, and finally John took pity on him. "Look. You can visit every day, and spend as long as you want. Maybe even stay overnight a few times. I'll get them to waive the usual visiting hour rules in your case, that shouldn't be a problem, as long as you promise to behave yourself. No deducing the lives of the other patients, no stealing of equipment for your home lab, and no reducing the doctors and staff to tears. Any more than you already have."

Sherlock had the grace to look a little bit guilty. He furtively reached a hand into the pocket of his coat and took out what turned out to be about three large handfuls of hospital 'paraphernalia' such as alcohol swabs, syringes and IV tubing. He tossed them into the rubbish next to the lone chair in the room.

"Thank you. Now sit up here beside me. There's plenty of room," he added, at Sherlock's look of doubt.

Sherlock eased himself carefully onto the bed so that he was lying full-length along John's left side. John placed his nearest hand on Sherlock's thigh, stroking gently. "You can still go and do cases with Lestrade," he murmured.

Sherlock turned onto his side and laid his head against John's shoulder. "Won't as much fun without you," he muttered, almost to himself.

John smiled against the black curls tickling his cheek. Sherlock spoke up again. "I suppose I'll just have to keep you informed."

"Yes, and I'll live vicariously through you and the descriptions of your activities. Just don't go getting yourself in trouble that you would need me to get you out of!"

"Yes, I think that would be best."

"Indeed."

John continued rubbing Sherlock's thigh, and wasn't altogether surprised when his hand ran into something long and hard at the top of his upward stroke. He smiled into the detective's hair, and quickly shifted from stroking the thigh, to stroking the hard-on.

Sherlock moaned very quietly against John's chest. John was aware of several things. Firstly, the door to the room was still open. Secondly, the nurse had said she would be back soon with something for him to sleep. Thirdly, he was turned on, in spite of everything, but he didn't think there was any way he would be able to sustain an erection himself with this much morphine in his blood. Fifthly, he didn't care one iota about that; this was about Sherlock.

He whispered into Sherlock's curls. "Go shut the door. Quick."

The detective raised his head and shot a surprised look at John's face.

"You heard me," he said quietly.

"You're in traction!" spluttered Sherlock, looking absolutely scandalized.

"Yes... and you're not."

They stared into each other's eyes for a long moment, and then Sherlock got up and crossed to the door of the room to shut it with a quiet snick. He turned and stared again at John, unmoving.

"You can't be serious."

"I'm perfectly serious."

"But..."

John interrupted. "Sherlock, I'm not asking you to fuck me or something! Just come here and let me pet you," he requested with an evil-looking smile.

At this explanation Sherlock looked relieved. He hurried back to John's side and regained his position on the bed. John placed his hand back at Sherlock's thigh and traced the line of Sherlock's engorged cock from base to head through his trousers. The detective shuddered minutely. John knew they had limited time, so he upped the ante fairly quickly, loosening the clasp on Sherlock's belt and quickly snaking a hand inside his trousers to extract the man's dick. As Sherlock never wore pants, this was absurdly easy to accomplish.

John was having to be doubly careful. He not only wanted to avoid detection by the nurses, but also was painfully aware of the fact that too much jostling of his leg was not good for his health at the moment. He wasn't feeling much pain, due to the medication, but that shouldn't lull him into a false sense of safety; this was insanely early for him to be making any kind of sexual overture to _anyone_ , as he's just gotten out of major surgery. He couldn't quite explain why he was wanting to do it, though. Part of his was probably that he wanted to comfort Sherlock in the best way he knew. It must have been hard for the man to watch John being wheeled away, in pain and in need to treatment, to a place where Sherlock couldn't watch and make sure for himself that John was safe. This basic need, making sure John was safe, was foremost in Sherlock's life now, placed in the detective's mind ahead of even casework. John would never have thought that possible when he'd first met the man, but Sherlock had evolved into an extremely loving, if a little possessive, partner to John, and he appreciated it. He wanted to soothe Sherlock with this act, and yes, he admitted to himself, he wanted to express his own possession of the man.

So when he'd pulled Sherlock's cock out into the cool hospital air, he was nearly as eager as the detective himself. He could even feel his cock trying to fill, and his body throbbed with want as the sight of Sherlock's dick, foreskin pulled back to reveal the shiny red head, glistening with a little bead of pre-ejaculate at the tip. Flicking his eyes to the door, he used his free hand to pull up the edge of his blanket so that it covered the view of Sherlock's lap from the door. He smirked dazedly to himself. Now he could really play.

John first played with the foreskin a little bit, taking it in hand and easing back and forward over the head of Sherlock's cock. In, out, in, out; he watched the shiny glans appear and disappear over and over. Sherlock's hips had begun minute movements, gently thrusting his hips upwards, seeking friction for his cock. John was happy to oblige him, and after smoothing the increasing amount of pre-come down the shaft of the man's cock, he took it in hand and began stroking in earnest.

Within moments, Sherlock was moaning softly, burying his face into John's exposed neck, licking and kissing, sniffing and nuzzling, just immersing himself in John's intoxicating scent: the smell of home. John would alternate strokes with gentle tugs on his balls occasionally, and it was not long before Sherlock's breath was hitching rhythmically the way it always did when he was approaching orgasm at a break-neck speed.

"Joooohn..." Sherlock moaned softly, and John watched the come spurting out of his cock two, three, then four times on to the tissue he had grabbed and placed under the head. Sherlock was twitching and convulsing with the sensations, trying to keep as silent as possible. He continued to stroke Sherlock's dick until it became too much for him and he had to still John's hand.

John tucked him back in and put Sherlock's trousers back into place, after handing the tissue to the detective, which he tossed into the bin. They lay there several long minutes before a quiet knock on the door announced the arrival of a nurse.

"Doctor Watson? I've brought you something to help you sleep," she said, peering at the extra person in John's bed. John smiled at her politely and, "Thank you, Beth. This is Sherlock. You'll be seeing a lot of him."

Beth was the nurse who had been there when he'd awoken and was now good enough to smile at them both. "And you being a doctor, I don't have to tell you about-"

"-keeping the limb absolutely immobilized," John finished with her. "Yes, I know that perfectly well, and Sherlock is on his best behavior."

John could see by the doubtful look on her face that she might have caught wind of the ruckus Sherlock had kicked up when they'd both arrived at the hospital.

Sherlock had sat up and now moved to the chair beside the bed. He smiled at John. "I'll be here when you wake up," he said.

"I know you will," yawned John, and snuggling back into his sheets, he drifted off to sleep.

*****

It was eight weeks later, and John was dying of boredom. He'd had enough of the hospital at the end of his first week, and now he felt like he would kill to get out of the place. He knew the cast was ready to come off and his leg taken out of traction, and he knew he was due for another consultation with the overseeing physician, at which he planned to demand his release.

Sherlock had arrived at nine am, after almost a full night leading Lestrade and the Yard on a merry chase all over London. They had caught their criminal, and Sherlock was riding the high of a successful closing of a case. He'd talked John's ear off about it, and John was itching to get out of the cast and pounce on the man. But he was still strapped in with his leg elevated as it had been for so long.

"Sherlock," he said, interrupting the third repetition of the chain of deduction that had lead Sherlock to identify the culprit and his current location. "I have an idea."

Sherlock stared at him, a wicked smile on his face. There was a certain way that John could look at the detective, and it was like sex itself. Lestrade had once called it "eye porn", and made them promise to stop doing it in front of him and the other detectives as it made them all itch like they were covered in bug bites. At least that was how Lestrade described it, but John himself had seen the erections that half of the force had been sporting that day. But today it was kept to between the two of them, and they both knew that they'd struck upon the same idea.

"Today?" Sherlock asked?

"NOW," replied John, achieving a solid hard-on in record time thanks to his reduction in pain medication and the strength of his desire for his partner. Sherlock grinned evilly and crossed the room to shut the door. He took out a piece of wire from his pocket and jammed it into the door handle - it had saved them from being interrupted during private moments more times than they could count.

"Get over here now, Sherlock," John growled, his hands flexing open and closed in convulsive movements, such was the level to which his desire had risen.

Sherlock approached the bed.

"Trousers off," ordered John. Sherlock complied without even a glance at the door. He stood there beside John's hospital bed, sporting a an erection that was so solid that it pointed straight up as his face, tapping against his belly as he took the final two steps that led him to the bed.

"What did you have in mind, Doctor?" Sherlock asked with a sly smirk.

"First, I thought I'd ask you to straddle my chest and let me get a mouthful," John purred, staring at Sherlock's dick.

Sherlock chuckled, and carefully climbed onto the bed. He slowly swung one leg over John's stomach and came to rest his bare buttocks on John's stomach, yet still supporting most of his weight on his own knees. John's head and shoulders were propped up against the headboard, and Sherlock had to simply push his cock horizontal with one hand to bring the leaking head to John's mouth, sliding that head back and forth, painting the prone man's lips with pre-come.

"Open for me, John."

John didn't hesitate, and took Sherlock as deep into his throat as he could. The detective stayed still for awhile, as John applied himself to pleasuring his partner. But it was not long before Sherlock took the proceedings into his own hands, and began to pump his cock in and out of John's mouth, butting the head of his cock against the back of John's throat. With each thrust, odd clicking noises were made as John gasped for breath around the cock in his mouth, dripping saliva down his own chin as he worked with Sherlock.

Finally he'd had enough. John was desperate to get inside his partner. It had been eight full weeks since he'd had the man, and he wasn't about to wait any longer. He reached up and stopped Sherlock's hips, pulling them back, and licked his lips before asking, "Did you bring lube by any chance?"

Sherlock smiled down at him. "Did I? Oh yes, John, I've been bringing it with me for the past fours weeks, waiting for this."

He produced what he had been hiding in his hand the entire time - a little sachet of lubricant. He handed it to John, who bit the package open with his teeth. The doctor was too worked up to take his time, and just pulled his own cock out and slicked it with lube, before reaching up to the cleft of Sherlock's buttocks, still straddled above his belly. He rubbed his fingertip around the entrance to Sherlock's body, finally plunging one finger deep inside him and unerringly finding Sherlock's prostate on the first try.

The two of them were desperate. John opened up Sherlock's arse in what must have been record time, and within moments Sherlock was begging for John's cock.

"I need it, John. Fill me."

John reached down and held his cock upright, and used his free hand to guide the detective's hips down. The head of his cock nudged against the stretched hole above it, and feeling it nestle into place, Sherlock sat down hard, applying all his weight to achieve a seamless entry that took John deeply into his body. Sherlock was careful not to lean back, and put any pressure on the leg that was still hoisted up in the air, instead leaned forward and kissed John hard on the mouth.

John couldn't really thrust into Sherlock, not tied down as he was, but that was no issue for the detective. He simply went for it, raising himself up and down on John's cock frantically, enjoying each inch of his partner's dick filling him up over and over again.

Neither of them was going to last for long at this point. John was already having to think of rotting body parts to stop from coming, and Sherlock as thinking of Mycroft in a dress, bonnet and flowery hat, and that brought him right back to earth. But this was not a time that was meant to be one of those slow, sensual fucks; no, this was an aggressive, life-affirming connection, and they finally locked eyes and agreed wordlessly to hold back no more. Sherlock took hold of his cock and wanked furiously, finally coming to fruition with several loud grunts. John opened his mouth to receive Sherlock's semen, and caught a couple of the jets of come before the final two landed on one eyebrow and the other across his nose.

Sherlock knew John hadn't come yet, and kept his hips in motion, continuing to ride the man's cock with admirable energy. John had his hands on Sherlock's hips, and finally pulled the detective down hard onto his cock, holding him in place as John's cock pulsed, spurting his come deep into his partner's body. John let out a guttural groan at the end of it, his eyes rolling back in his head with pleasure.

They collapsed, limp, onto the bed. Or rather, Sherlock did, as John had been lying prone after all. But Sherlock took the time to lean down and lick his own come off John's face, kissing him immediately and sharing the taste of him with the doctor, who grinned with pleasure.

"Off," he finally said, tapping Sherlock's hip. The detective grinned and pulled himself off of John's wilting cock and quickly stepped back into his trousers while John did his own pajama bottoms up again.

There was a loud knock at the door. Then again. Sherlock had an impish smile on his face. "You'd better open the door. What are you smirking at, Sherlock?" he asked.

"I'm laughing because your come is leaking down my leg right now and I'm about to open the door to your doctor, several residents and two nurses, who are followed by Lestrade and Mycroft, who are also waiting outside.

John's face went red. "What?"

"Oh, did I forget to tell you they were waiting?"

Silence.

"You're in trouble. Just you wait and see, Sherlock."

"Looking forward to it."

****


End file.
